


“A Dream Is a Wish . . . ”

by Polgarawolf



Series: Dreams [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Advice, Alliances, Angel of the Lord, Angelic Brethren, Angelic Machinations, Angelic Visitation Via Dreams, Angels, Angels Are Dicks (Except Castiel), Angels are Dicks, Anger, Antichrist, Apocalypse, Archangels, Armageddon, Brotherly Duties/Responsibilities, Brothers, Cambions, Caring, Choices, Confusion, Demonic Machinations, Demons, Devotion, Dreams, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, F/M, Fallen Angels, Families of Choice, Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Family Work, Fear, Forgiveness, Free Will, Friendship, Healing, Hell, Holy Spirit, Hope, Hunters, Hunting, Hurt, Katakos, Lies, Loneliness, Love, Magic, Masks, Meat Suits for Angels/Demons, Other, Pain, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Proper Caretaking for a Stubborn Angel, Protection/Wards/Aid for Sleeping, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Protective Sigils, Protective Symbols, Protectiveness, Questions, References to Past Attempted Brainwashing, Regret, Relationship Advice, Respite, Resurrection, Revelations, Righteous Rage, Secrets, Self-Blame, Sharing, Shekhinah, Sleep, Sleep Deprivation, Support, Talking, Team Free Will, Tricksters, Trust, Unconventional Families, Vessels, Wards, adoration, care, faith - Freeform, joy, references to past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-21
Updated: 2009-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 08:22:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polgarawolf/pseuds/Polgarawolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary: </b>As though Sam Winchester’s life weren’t stressful, insane, and just downright weird enough (seeing as how he’s accidentally kick-started the Apocalypse and apparently is the vessel of choice for Lucifer, as well as brother to the supposed Sword of Michael), he seems to have inherited the role of advice guru for a certain renegade, resurrected angel of the Lord, in all matters pertaining to Dean Winchester. While he (generally) knows Dean well enough to give out the advice, some things are beyond even his power to predict, especially once a half-demon boy enters the picture and Dean actually starts meaning it, when he tells Castiel that the angel is his friend . . . </p><p><b>Warning:</b> Apparently, I am writing an on-going series of linked stories, (mostly) in response to the individual episodes of season five. This particular story is meant to function both as a kind of sequel to the previous five stories I’ve written for <i>Supernatural</i>, “What Dreams May Come,” “Unless First We Dream,” “Dreams Are Free,” “Dreams Shall Never Die,” and “My Dreams Under Your Feet,” and as a sort of continuation of and between-the-scenes addition to season five’s sixth episode, “I Believe the Children Are Our Future.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	“A Dream Is a Wish . . . ”

**Author's Note:**

> **Pairing:** Mention of past Sam/Ruby and of past Sam/Jessica. Mention of/implication that Lucifer is attempting to “woo” Sam. Can most easily be read as preslash Dean/Castiel and/or a growing friendship/brotherly bond between Sam and Castiel.
> 
>  **Author’s Notes: 1).** As with the other five stories in this series, I have no idea where this story came from. Part of it actually came to me prior to viewing episode six, and the rest pretty much flowed straight from having seen the episode. Aside from the whole Castiel visiting Sam in his dreams thing, it’s canon-compliant (as far as I can tell) up through the sixth episode of season five (and could be considered at least semi-spoilerish for the show up through that episode) and I suppose could be read as (kind of) gen, though frankly the vibe that I get from Castiel when I’m writing in this particular ’verse feels anything _but_ gen and Sam’s pretty damned sure that an angel of the Lord is not only in love with but adores and reveres his brother and that his brother’s in the first stages of learning how to have enough faith to return the sentiment. 
> 
> **2).** Erhm, despite Sam’s ginormous tendency towards stupidly destructive levels of self-centeredness (which is, as mentioned in the notes for the previous stories, the reason I’ve always primarily been a Dean girl and not a Sam girl), I do not believe that he is actually a bad (much less an evil) person – just a little bit spoiled and selfish and occasionally phenomenally stupid. He’s _human_ , in other words, folks. And, given how much he cares about his brother – how hugely protective of his brother he can (when not being a selfish dick or addled by power and demon blood and desire for revenge at all costs) be (which only makes sense, given that Dean’s pretty much all he has) – it only makes sense that Sam would have a vested interest in keeping his brother happy, as well as healthy, sane, and safe (at least as much as humanly possible). 
> 
> So even though Sam may occasionally resent the hell out of Dean for, well, treating him like the little brother (and essentially the surrogate child) he is, and even though quite often he may long to get out from under Dean’s extremely long shadow and learn how to stand on his own two feet, I think it’s safe to say that not only would Sam react ferociously, pitilessly, and relentlessly, if he ever suspected someone capable of hurting his brother to be planning to cause Dean harm of any kind (be it physical, mental, or emotional), he would also do his level best to take time out from his own problems (even one as huge as apparently being Lucifer’s chosen vessel) to help anyone he suspected of being capable of making Dean happy and/or of making Dean’s life easier. Even (or perhaps _especially_ ) if the individual in question were actually an angel capable of dragging a soul up out of Hell and putting it back into a miraculously healed and living body, and even if the angel in question were being more of a stubbornly idiotic dick than usual . . . 
> 
> **3).** As I’ve said in the author’s notes for all of my other stories for _Supernatural_ , this is kind of a strange fandom for me, in that, since the show has largely refused to allow the main characters to have (or to keep) any romantic attachments or possible romantic attachments that aren’t either broken by death or else what some would consider blasphemous/unnatural in some way, I’ve managed to be a fan for years without ever being tempted to seriously ship anyone on the show, before. The appearance of Castiel on the show and the dynamic of his evolving relationship with Dean, though, has kind of thrown me for a loop . . . and that rule of no shipping straight out the window, as I find myself not only drawn more and more to the possibility of a Dean/Castiel pairing but actually having my mental arms twisted by one of my muses so that I will write stories for this possible pairing.
> 
> I can’t even begin to guess what this darn muse thinks she’s doing – I spent most of season four actively _avoiding_ embracing this possible ship, mainly due to the fact that (back then) it (mostly) seemed to be painfully one-sided (on top of which, frankly, it disturbs the ever living crap out of me to even approach the notion of a God who would _deliberately_ send an angel to a human, all the while knowing that the essential nature of the two beings involved could only result in pain, Dean too scarred by his life/afterlife/second life to even be able to recognize love and faith when it is offered to him and Castiel having no choice – as a creature whose sole purpose is essentially to experience love and to glorify the divine and faithfully praise God by worshiping all of His creation – _but_ to love) – but I’ve learned that it’s generally futile to resist a muse.
> 
> (To be continued below!)

 

 

**"A Dream Is a Wish . . . "**

  
  
Considering all of the shit he’s been through (and would be perfectly justified in having nightmares about, whether what he’s been through hasn’t been nearly as hideously awful as what Dean’s been through or not), Sam Winchester is fairly certain that he’s lost what little is left of his sanity when he realizes he’s started looking forward to sleep and the dreams that might come, rather than dreading them (and never mind the fact that those dreams might also happen to bring a visit from and another satisfying talk with a certain renegade angel).

Still. Dreams like this? They’re pleasant enough (and a nice enough change from the normal fare!) that he almost doesn’t even regret the fact that he’s clearly finally lost that last little corner of real estate in sane-land and surrendered himself to crazy-ville.

The beach is beautiful – pristine blazing white sand and endless swells of eye-achingly vivid aquamarine shading into deep ultramarine under a bright azure sky and a warm golden sun – and blessedly near-empty, and it’s just so peaceful and lovely and warm that he can’t even find it in himself to regret the fact that the beach is also quite obviously unreal as a politician’s promises to do good and always look out for the best interests of the people.

"Thank you," he whispers without turning his head or moving so much as an inch from where he’s sprawled loosely out on the thick dark wine-red blanket spread across a patch of that pale sand, only a meter or so above the mark where the tide reaches, at its fullest. His eyes are shut (to more effectively allow him to soak in the lulling calm of the rhythmic sounds of the endlessly restless waves and the honey-slow warmth of the sun as it seeps through his thin white cotton tee-shirt and faded, slightly ragged khaki shorts into his skin and soaks soul-deep into him), but he doesn’t need to be able to see to know who’s standing beside him. He can hear the familiar rustling, even above the noise of the ocean.  
"It has not been easy for you, these past days. You seemed to need the respite."

Castiel’s voice sounds oddly muted – subdued, in a way that skirts near to sorrow – and Sam would really, _really_ prefer it if they could maybe have one visit that doesn’t involve some kind of world-shaking revelation or brain-bruising realization or heart-shocking denouement to yet another painful argument only poorly disguised as a debate, but he’s not about to try to turn Castiel or his troubles away, after all he’s done (all he’s given up, all he’s _still_ willing to give up) for his family. So he sighs, and thoughtfully notes, "No. But it hasn’t been easy for Dean, either. Or you, I imagine. How’ve you been, since you left that night? You haven’t visited in a few nights. Everything going okay?"

"It is going . . . well enough."

"Dude. You _totally_ fail at lying. You might as well tell me."

There’s a pause, and then another bout of rustling, as if from slumped shoulders. Castiel doesn’t sigh, but his voice is slow when he admits, "I am merely unaccustomed to being alone. It is . . . disconcerting. It will pass."

It takes a few seconds, but when his brain finally catches up with all the implications of the angel’s words, Sam’s eyes fly wide, his shocked intake of breath so loud that he might have been trying to inhale around a lungful of broken glass. "God, you – being cut off from Heaven means no more angel radio, doesn’t it? It means you aren’t in contact with them anymore. At _all_. That you really are alone. Is this – you haven’t – I mean, what, _never_ , before now? You’ve _never_ been alone, before now? Didn’t that – wouldn’t you kinda get – I don’t know, just – it just – it doesn’t seem all that . . . peaceful, to have so many voices dinning in your head all the time."

Castiel’s shoulders move, the motion definitely a shrug, though their downward motion extends into a tired slump. "I have been able to hear my brethren for the whole of my life, Sam. With the garrison stationed as it has been, the voices of my brethren were one of the few strong ties to Heaven that I retained. Now . . . the silence is not merely strange or painful. It is _alien_."

God.

That’s just – _God_! "I – " _Sorry_ isn’t nearly big enough, not nearly good enough, nothing at all even remotely close to encompassing what should be said, in response to such an admission. Especially given that, as of right now, everything Castiel gave up (for Dean, for no other reason then that Dean asked it of him) has been for nothing. Castiel _died_ for them (and the thought, _Greater love hath no man, than he lay down his life for his friend_ , is like a physical weight upon his heart), and for what? So he could be shunned by his brethren and barred from Heaven, hunted for being the only one who cared enough to turn against unjust orders to try to help humanity, while Lucifer still manages to break free and walk the Earth? Sam can do nothing but feel helpless and miserable and guilty as sin as he swings up on the blanket, sitting up, so he can reach out and touch the nearest of Castiel’s hands, trying to convey through physical contact what his voice cannot. "I would give that back to you, if I could. _Dean_ would give their voices to you on a silver platter, if he could. You know that, right?"

The hand twitches but doesn’t quite pull away. "I know."

Tentatively, he curls his fingers around Castiel’s hand. "And you can come and see either one of us, come and talk to us, whenever you want, whenever you need to hear someone else’s voice. We’d both be glad to have you."

"I know, Sam. Dean has said much the same thing. But I do not wish to intrude."

Sam’s the one who finally sighs, not quite able to stop the thought, _Great. Another self-sacrificing masochist for the Winchester family._ "Cas, we’ve had our first real talk. Things are getting better. Especially since we got the Leshii the way we did. You could come see us. _Really_. It wouldn’t be intruding. I think – I think Dean kinda misses having you around. He keeps looking off to the side, like he’s expecting somebody – someone who’s not me – to be there."

Quietly, seriously, Castiel’s deep rough voice slightly rougher than normal, the angel replies, "I have noticed Dean has very strong protective urges, when faced with individuals he believes cannot take care of themselves or deal properly with the rest of the world. He believes that I do not fit in well and so draw a dangerously excessive amount of attention to myself. He wishes to help me, to teach me how to fit in better. Or he did, before what Zachariah did to him. Now, he is conflicted about that. He still wishes to help me, but he fears changing me. It hurts him, to not be sure of what he should do." Castiel pauses for a moment, lips set in a thin hard line and dark gaze turned inwards, clearly upset by what he’s just admitted and just as clearly unhappy with himself for being so upset. "I have no desire to be such a burden to your brother. Or to be a burden to you, for that matter. I can wait, until he has grown more used to the notion of being able to trust his instincts around me, again. He knows that the future Zachariah showed to him was nothing but lies and he has accepted that. And he is becoming accustomed to the idea that you are with him, again. It should not be long. I can wait. Patience – "

Scowling, Sam cuts him off, warning him, "Cas, I swear, if you say that patience is a virtue, I’m gonna hafta tell Dean, so he can smack you for me. It’s okay for you to want things, you know. It’s especially okay for you to be unhappy with how things are and want them to be better. That’s _normal_. This whole damn situation sucks. If you weren’t unhappy with it, I’d be worried about how sane you are, angel or not."

Castiel’s face tightens, mouth turning down at the corners and gaze flicking away from Sam, and it only takes a few moments for Sam to realize that his expression is one of shame. "I made my choice. I would not unmake it, even if I could. It is pointless to be unhappy with the consequences. Our situation could be worse than it is. We need to be hopeful for the future, not dwelling in anger and sorrow and disappointment upon the past. I _know_ these things. It is foolish of me to be so discontent."

Sam sighs again, and, even though he’s not sure he’s going to accomplish anything except make himself look foolish, he slides his hand up around Castiel’s wrist (which is far too thin, a part of him instantly notes. All bird-bones and fragility and _fuck_ , should they be trying to make sure Castiel eats now, since he’s cut off from Heaven and his powers are diminished?) and yanks, _hard_ , even as he slides himself sideways across the blanket (ready to catch Castiel, if it should become necessary, in case this works better than the snowball’s chance in a supernova he thinks it has of succeeding). And either the fact that it’s a dream (or that it’s technically _Sam’s_ dream, even if the angel’s helped to craft it) makes things work differently than they normally would or else he actually manages to catch the angel off-guard, because Cas lets out a small surprised sound, overbalances, and ends up half gracelessly sprawled sideways and half sitting on the blanket beside Sam.

"You’re being an idiot. Since you’re my honorary brother now, it’s my responsibility to tell you when you’re being an idiot – and to do something about it. Like tell you to _stop_ being such an idiot." Sam uses the same tone of voice ( _a three-year-old would understand this, so why the hell don’t you get it?_ ) he reserves for his brother when Dean’s being particularly obstinate and moronic, and fixes the angel with the accompanying combination of wide eyes and thin-lipped glare that he’s all but perfected in the many years of being little brother to someone as stubborn and idiotic as Dean is capable of being. "So stop being such an idiot, will ya? This is a really nice place. You’re kinda ruining it with your idiocy."

Castiel’s eyes are wide too, but shocked and hurt and still skittering away from Sam, as though it would hurt the angel to look Sam in the eyes. It hurts a surprisingly great deal, at least at first. He’s reminded of those awkward and more than a little acrimonious months after they first met, when Castiel almost always seemed to avoid being close enough to come into contact with Sam, as though the demon blood in him were a terrible contagion that could be transferred through touch alone, and all too often seemed to have either the slightest hint of a disgusted sneer or else a foreboding sort of thunderous frown on his face, whenever he would catch sight of Sam, quite often seeming to deliberately angle himself so that Sam would be just at the corner of one of his eyes and he wouldn’t have to look directly at the tainted, impure-blooded brother of the man he raised up from Hell. He’d thought that Castiel hated him, back then, and cheerfully attempted to return the favor, anger over his own failure to save Dean and envy at the angel’s apparently effortless ability to do so curdling into jealousy and rage, but never quite slipping into hatred, gratitude for Dean’s return stopping him from ever quite managing to hate the angel responsible for it.

It took far too long for Sam to realize that, while the frown and Castiel’s avoidance of him was real enough, it had a lot more to do with the fact that the angel simply didn’t know what to make of him or how to deal with him and intensely disliked the fact that Sam was a source of so much conflict and pain within Dean. What he’d thought was a sneer had, in retrospect, been more a matter of Sam projecting his own fears and growing dislike of himself (and how much he always seemed to disappoint his brother and cause him pain) onto the angel than anything else. While Uriel certainly loathed him (and made not even the slightest of efforts to hide the fact that he wished for nothing more, in Sam’s case, than be allowed to smite Sam from existence) and Zachariah surely didn’t think all that much more highly of him, Castiel – though initially caring about him mostly because Dean did and anything and anyone precious to Dean automatically gained a certain amount of import in the angel’s eyes – at least _tried_ to understand and care for Sam as an individual and a human being.

There is no doubt in his mind now that he has the (entirely undeserved) honor of being one of two (possibly three, through Sam’s certainly not going to try to tell Bobby that and he won’t be pressing the point with Castiel either, any time soon, given how well he remembers the all too painful flash of shame and sorrow in the angel’s eyes, in that hospital, when he had to explain that he could not heal Bobby!) humans considered at least as precious and beloved as family is, to Castiel. And that is precisely why it hurts – at least at first, for the space of about twenty or so heartbeats and a shaky inhale of breath after too long a pause after exhaling – when Castiel won’t even look at him. It’s Castiel shakily (words coming a little bit too quickly) declaring, "I am sorry to ruin the moment of peace. I know how much you need the respite," that shocks him into taking that next breath, and realizing that the angel is looking away because he still feels ashamed of himself that banishes the flash of hurt.

Anger flows in, in its stead, not at Castiel, but the motherless sons of bitches – brothers, brethren, so-called superiors – who’ve done this to him, given him that defeated curve of spine and shadow of self-loathing that makes him truly believe he’s wrong for wanting, even if all he wants is to put things right and to help people.

"Castiel – _brother_ – listen to me, alright? _It is okay for you to be unhappy with the way things have gone and to want things to be better._ There is _nothing_ wrong with you. I’m not angry at you and you’re not really ruining anything. Hell, this whole thing?"Sam half laughs, gesturing towards the ocean. "This beach? This dream? It’s basically a gift from you. You’re the only reason I don’t have Lucifer or that ass Zachariah or some other angelic sonuvabitch rummaging about in my head while I’m sleeping. I just – I really want _you_ to have some respite, too, you know? I know you could use it. And you’re kinda acting like Dean, so I spoke like I would with Dean, to try to get you to stop it and maybe stop worrying too and just – just enjoy the scenery a little bit. Okay? I didn’t mean anything bad by it. Honestly. You don’t have to feel sorry for anything or apologize for anything. I just – Cas, could you maybe _try_ to not hate yourself? _Please?_ Dean and I, we’re already fucked up about a million ways from Sunday because we can’t seem to stop making that mistake. I really, _really_ don’t want you to make it, too."

Castiel doesn’t quite flinch, but his shoulders hunch in a little bit more closely together, and Sam feels a pang of shamed sorrow, regretting that his words are hurting the angel, even though he’s sure that Castiel needs to hear them. "I am not so far gone as to hate myself, Sam. I am . . . displeased with myself. Disappointed with myself and my brethren. And perhaps ever so slightly disgusted with certain recent events. But I do not hate myself. That would be contrary to my Father’s will."

"Then you’re giving an awfully good impression of Dean, when he talks about Hell and tries to convince everyone and everything within a ten mile radius that he’s worse than all the demons of Hell rolled together and utterly unworthy of breathing air and probably corrupting others just by being in their presence." And _there’s_ the flinch. Sam sighs and resists the urge to hunch his own shoulders inwards, the angel’s defensive posture and shuttered (but clearly still pained) face making him feel a little bit too much like a bully for comfort. Gently, he continues speaking, forcing himself to keep his voice low and soothing, like he does whenever he talks to people who’ve witnesses or been through something supernatural and traumatic, "I don’t know what you’re doing or seeing or suffering, when you’re off by yourself, trying to look for God, but Cas? If it leaves you like this, maybe you shouldn’t be doing this alone. Dean and I, we’re maybe not good again, yet, but we’re a lot better. And I _know_ he misses you. It’s not just that he’s worried about you. He _misses you_ , Cas. He bends conversations towards you without even seeming to realize he’s doing it, half the time, and he keeps turning off to the side, like he’s about to speak to you, like he expects you to be there, at his shoulder."

Instead of being comforted or reassured, though, Castiel turns his face away, eyes falling shut, as if he were in pain. "If the quest were not difficult – if it were not a trial and a harrowing of character, of spirit – then I could not trust that I were on the right path. Such things are not meant to be easy. If I have worried you, I am sorry. I have heard rumors, in my travels, that have caused me some concern. I have no desire to believe that they are true, but I fear it is likely so. And I am dismayed by my weakness, that I wish to turn my face away and stopper my ears against further word of these rumors."

"Can you tell me what the rumors are?"

Cas shakes his head once, decisively, his expression grim. "The knowledge would be . . . particularly burdensome and painful to you and to Dean. Without actual proof – "

Sam manfully resists the urge to see if grabbing Castiel by the shoulders and shaking him would work, too, and interrupts, insisting, "If the rumors are of something that bad, Dean and I are gonna need to know. If it’s that much of a threat – "

Castiel, though, sets his jaw mutinously, shaking his head. "I am _not_ going to burden you or your brother with rumors of every threat that I merely fear might be true. You cannot ask me to do that. You and Dean already carry too much on your shoulders. I will _not_ inflict this upon you as well. Not without more proof than my fears."

"Cas – "

Castiel, though, cuts him off again, voice raising a little as he declares, " _No_ , Sam."

Frustration finally getting the better of him, Sam huffily fires back, "If you won’t talk about what’s bothering you, then I don’t know how I’m supposed to help you!"

Castiel shocks him by turning towards him with wide, earnest eyes and the faintest hint of smile. "Sam, you _are_ helping me. Speaking with you like this reminds me of why Dean was right to refuse my superiors, why I was right to choose to help him. These talks of ours, they are comforting to me. You remind me why it is so important to retain hope."

That admission essentially cuts off Sam’s building anger at the knees, and he visibly deflates, breath sighing out of him, body slumping forward until his elbows are propped up on his knees. "But I don’t feel like I’m helping you," he admits, voice suddenly plaintive, wavering, reduced by shame and by guilt. "I feel like I’m here, with Dean, and it’s keeping you away from him. I feel like I’m hurting you – like I’m hurting _Dean_ – and I don’t want to. Cas, I don’t want to hurt either one of you. I’ve already made so many bad choices, done so many stupid, hurtful things – and God only knows how you’ve managed to forgive me, for choosing Ruby over Dean. _I’m_ the one who made all your sacrifices meaningless. If I’d just listened to Dean and gone back to Bobby’s with him, the Apocalypse wouldn’t be happening and Heaven and Hell would just have to do without their damned war, ’cause I don’t think anyone else could’ve broken that last Seal and we wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t decided to listen to Ruby – and I don’t want to keep doing things like that, to keep choosing the wrong thing. I don’t want to hurt Dean anymore and I don’t want to hurt you, either."

"I know that, Sam. Dean knows it, too. He knows that you do not intentionally set out to make the wrong choices or to hurt others. He is your brother and he loves you, even when he doesn’t understand your thinking or your decisions."

"I don’t want him to have to make excuses for me – !"

The head-tilt returns, though the look in the angel’s eyes is less one of confusion than it is of surprise. "He does not excuse you, Sam. He forgives you. There is a difference."

Angrily, Sam immediately insists, "I don’t want him to have to do either one! I don’t want to keep hurting him!"

Castiel doesn’t even blink. "And I am certain he knows that. In any case, you are not the sole reason why I am not traveling with Dean. There are things I must do, if I wish to find my Father, that I simply cannot do in the presence of your brother or you."

"But – "

Castiel, though, just interrupts him again, voice solemn and earnest as he insists, "Sam. If you or your brother could do anything else to help me, I would ask for your aid. I have promised Dean that I would. And I will do so, if I need to. If I have worried you, then I am sorry. I am . . . merely tired."

"Isn’t there anyone you could ask for help with what you’re doing? Anna – "

Castiel shakes his head, eyes once again averted, face lined with pain and with shame. "I am not sure if Anna is still alive. She came to speak to me, to urge me to listen to Dean and not to blindly obey Zachariah’s orders, and the garrison captured her, shortly before the final Seal fell. Technically, with her Grace now intact, they have no right to slay her. And she outranks Zachariah – who became commander of the garrison only after she Fell – both in terms of power and past prestige. But I doubt that those who have proven themselves so willing to twist God’s laws and to manipulate others towards their own selfish ends will allow themselves to be bound by such rules. I fear they may have set the archangels upon her and destroyed her. Even if they have not . . . Sam, time can run very differently, in Heaven, much as it can in Hell. Even if there is anything still left of her, I doubt she will be inclined to listen to me, much less to offer her assistance or allegiance."

"I – " And _God_ , there it is again. _Sorry_ just isn’t a big enough word, anymore. The thought, _We need a new word, for the level of fucked-up-ness in our lives. Does angelic script have a symbol for horrified, painful, pain-filled, sorrowful regret?_ flits through his mind, nearly making him choke on the urge to give voice to the bitter, half-hysterical bubble of laughter rising in him.

It occurs to Sam – really occurs to him, in a way he’s not entirely sure he’s completely understood before – that he and his brother have destroyed Castiel’s life. Even if they win this, even if they find God and figure out another way to deal with Lucifer and somehow or another convince God to take all of His wayward angelic children enough to task to keep them from trying any more of their bullshit (like ripping Castiel to shreds), things will never be the same for Castiel again. They _can’t_ be, for in the process of opening his eyes to the truth behind his orders and the actions of his superiors and brethren, Dean’s shown him (and perhaps Sam is also now helping to reaffirm the fact) that humans – flawed, frightened, furious, blasphemous, lustful, vulgar, thieving, lying _humans_ – can be more honest, more truthful, more kind and giving, more courageous and compassionate, possess more honor and integrity, and be more worthy of loyalty and of love than the angels of Heaven, whom Castiel has loved for all of his millennia-long life. Things will never, _ever_ be the same for him again, even if they do manage to pull this off. And it is entirely the fault of the Winchesters.

Sam has to wonder (the thought tinged more than a little with hysteria) whether breaking an angel of such faith – given that it was so fundamentally flawed, being thoroughly steeped in lies and manipulation – would be considered a good deed or a bad deed, by God. Either way, he suddenly feels like even more of a piece of shit than he usually does, and has to fight to keep his hands from trembling, as he looks on the angel’s obviously agonized face. Slowly, gently, he offers, "I wish that hadn’t happened. I’m sorry. For you, and for her. It wasn’t your fault."

Castiel just shakes his head, jaw set, face a study in agonized self-recrimination. "She came to see _me_ , to try to convince _me_ to listen to Dean, to do the right thing and help him. I tried to warn her, but she did not hear me in time. And I did not dare to try to stop them, when they took her. I was afraid Zachariah would keep me from being able to see Dean at all, and I – I was selfish. I could not bear the thought of being permanently separated from him."

"Cas, it’s not – "

"I am at fault," Castiel merely insists, voice flat, convinced, immovable. "It does no good to dissemble. I am at fault for her capture, just as I am at fault for damaging the protective wards that had been keeping you sealed safely in Bobby Singer’s panic room. They would not have been able to capture her, without me. And you would not have been able to leave that room, without outside help – which I provided, both for fear of what Zachariah would do, if I refused, and because I knew it would do no good and that another of the garrison would just be sent in my place, to release you, if I refused to be the one to do it. The decisions were in part selfish. I did not wish to be separated from Dean any more than I already had been, because of orders."

"Cas, it’s not your fault that your superiors are assholes who behave like they’re on Lucifer’s side, more often than not! You – "

"I was the one who decided not to try to save Anna, when they came for her. I was the one who released you from the safety of that room and its wards. I was the one who initially obeyed those orders, not out of true belief, but out of a misguided desire to help ease humanity’s suffering and my own pain and despair, for what I had been made to suffer and know, as well as fear of having your brother ripped from me. I was weak, Sam. If I had – "

Sam groans in frustration before he can quite stop himself. "Oh, no. Don’t you start, too. The _if I’d only been stronger_ litany doesn’t do anything to help. Don’t you know that yet, from watching Dean? He does the same damn thing. Hell, I do, too. It’s practically a Winchester stock in trade. But that doesn’t mean you have to be as much of an idiot as we are. Okay? Just – just – _don’t_ , man, alright? I don’t know what you’ve been doing or what you’ve seen or who you’ve been listening to or anything, really, about where you go, when you leave, but if it’s going to make you like this? You’ve gotta stop. _Seriously._ This isn’t you."

"I am – "

"If you say _tired_ , by God, I’m gonna tie you to a bed until you learn how to sleep!"

Castiel blinks at him. Opens his mouth, as if to protest. Blinks again, as an expression of surprise flits across his face. Closes his mouth. Frowns. Blinks a third time, more slowly that the previous two. Tilts his head to the side, as if in consideration. Frowns harder. And then finally, when Sam’s about to lose his patience and try the shaking by the shoulders routine, thoughtfully allows, "Hmm. My powers _are_ diminished in this state, as I cannot return to Heaven. I wonder if it would help."

Sam lets arms slide down to the sides of his bent legs and his head fall forward onto his knees, even though he knows it’s going to hurt at least a little bit. (The urge to hit his head – hard and repeatedly – against the nearest solid surface is so overwhelming that he can’t quite stop himself.) "Castiel?"

"Yes, Sam?"

Castiel’s eyes are so wide and guilelessly innocent and _blue_ when Sam looks up at him that he has to fight hard to resist that urge to bounce his head off of something solid (like the top of a desk, perhaps. Or a wall), out of sheer frustration. "Go back to where your body is. Wake up. Eat something – preferably something at least a little bit nutritious, but as long as it’s at least a little bit like a solid meal, it’ll help, so I won’t complain. And drink something, while you’re at it. Water or juice or milk or tea, but not something with a lot of caffeine. And when you’re done, go and find somewhere safe to take a freakin’ nap, alright? Recharge your batteries some. I’m pretty darn sure you need it."

Castiel blinks at him again, head tilting a little bit more. "Oh. Are you certain that – ?"

"It can’t possibly hurt, as long as you find somewhere safe to rest," Sam insists. "And Dean will kill me if he finds out I let you go in this state, without making you promise to take some time out to recharge. I’m surprised he hasn’t been on you about eating and sleeping, too."

"He has insisted that I partake of his meals, in the past, when I have happened upon him while he is eating. It is easier to acquiesce than to refuse, when he so obviously has his mind set on something and wishes nothing but good to come of his desire. It cannot hurt me, to partake of sustenance and drink. I have avoided alcohol on principle, but the rest?" Castiel does that thing where the titled movement of his head somehow translates to a shrug. "I do not believe such things as strawberries in ice cream will cause me any harm."

"Oh. Well. Good. Keep doing that, okay? And eat some whether you’re visiting Dean while he’s stuffing his face or not. You’re too damn small."

Castiel blinks, then looks down at his body, frowning. "This vessel is displeasing?"

The woebegone look in Castiel’s eyes makes Sam feel like a total ass. If he didn’t think Castiel would mistake the gesture, he’d hit himself in the forehead for not thinking before opening his mouth. "No! No, I just mean you’re too thin. Your wrist – it felt like I could break it, without even half trying. And your clothes are looking a little bigger than usual on you. You need to eat more. _Regularly._ If your powers are diminished, you need to do more, to conserve what you have and to keep yourself going. Eating and sleeping are basics. They should help."

"Oh." Castiel blinks, then looks back up at him. "Thank you, Sam," he adds, gracing Sam with one of those blindingly brilliant (Sam’s starting to think he should invest in a good pair of sunglasses. Seeing the angel happy is like being permitted to see minuscule manifestations of his Grace, and, while it’s a beautiful thing as far as it goes, it also kinda hurts his eyes and makes him wonder how high the ratio of Grace being exuded from Castiel would have to go before he’d be in danger of getting his eyes flambéed right out of his head) slivers of a smile. "I will do so."

Sam breathes out, a little bit shakily, and does his best to return the smile. "Okay. Good. Great! That’s – that’s really good. You go do that, okay? I’m just gonna stay here for awhile and chill, if it’s all the same with you."

"You do not wish for me to – ?"

"I _like_ this beach." It comes out a lot more plaintively than he expected or ever would’ve wanted it to, but dammit, he _does_ like it. It – it reminds him of California (of Jess and love like a sun constantly blooming heat and comfort under his ribs) and a whole different kind of respite (hiding, head burrowed determinedly into sand, eyes turned blindly away from the world), even though he knows it’s not any real beach in the world and certainly not one in California.

Castiel’s eyes soften. He reaches out and touches not Sam’s forehead, but the crown of his head, briefly, gently, the gesture far more obviously one of benediction. "You may stay as long as you wish. I will go and do as you advise. Rest. Be well and safe, Sam."

"And you, Cas. You, too," Sam insists, weirdly comforted by the gesture, able to smile at him this time and mean it. Castiel’s face softens almost to a smile, and then somehow he just vanishes, no perceptible movement whatsoever, just gone, between one heartbeat and the next, a rush of wind and a rustle as of feathers washing over Sam in his absence.

Sam sighs. _Exhausted angels slip into a state of guilt and self-loathing very like despair. Behavior and attitude devolves in a manner similar to Dean’s, when he’s too punch-drunk tired to even be able to want to fight back. Okay. Check. Added to list of things to watch out for and try to prevent at all costs,_ he thinks to himself before heaving another long, gusty sigh. He’s still kind of tempted to bang his head against something solid, but the heat of the sun is comforting, the rhythmic susurrus and lapping of the waves calming, and, to tell the truth, he feels as though he can still sense Castiel’s touch on his forehead, his benediction, his wish that Sam rest and be well and safe, burning but not burning against the skin of his scalp, a spot of warmth and gentle, caring kindness made tangible. After awhile, he relaxes again, muscles loosening, body slipping back down to lie on the blanket spread upon the sand.

It _is_ a very nice place. Soothing. Calming. Healing.

When he slips down so far into his sleep that he no longer dreams, Sam is so relaxed and full of peace that he doesn’t even notice.

Unfortunately, the sense of peaceful relaxation doesn’t last long. Two nights later, when Castiel reappears in his dreams, the angel looks downright ragged, pale and drawn and beaten down in a way that reminds Sam almost painfully of Dean. "Cas? What the Hell happened to you? Didn’t you get any sleep?"

"There were . . . complications. I have been quite busy, since our last meeting."

Shit, even his voice sounds exhausted, worn thin and scratchy-rough, like his body’s in the first stages of wearing itself down enough to catch the first cold that comes along. "Too busy to take care of yourself?" he demands, worry driving his own voice to rise to a slightly shriller pitch than he’d intended.

The angel’s shoulders slump and, when he shoves his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, the motion is slow and dragging, as though lifting them even such a small distance, from his sides to the pockets, is almost too much for him to manage. Quietly, he replies, "Too busy for many things, Sam. I am sorry if my appearance is distressful to you – "

"Dude. You look like someone who got dragged through Hell and then back out of again. Backwards. And upside down. You need to _rest_ , Cas! Here – oh, for God’s sake!" His voice spikes high with worry as the angel sways slightly on his feet, as though lightheaded with exhaustion. "Sit down before you fall down!"

They’re back on the beach again, though this time there are two simple wooden lounging chairs (the padding a vivid shade of Kelley green, plain but bright and oddly suitable, considering their surroundings), rather than a blanket to stretch out on. He guides Castiel to sit in the nearest of the two, and then swings around to seat himself on the edge of the second, leaning close as Castiel slumps back against the chair, eyes falling shut, the shadows under them and the paleness of his face conspiring to make the shape of his skull beneath that too tightly stretched skin painfully obvious. He looks so exhausted that even his hair – which always looks windblown, always seems to stick up crazily in a thousand untamable directions all at once – seems flattened down, beaten down, _tired_. He sits there (lays there, really, slumped back against the chair) for a long time, looking small and lost and wan and worn entirely too thin, trench coat swimming on him, for a long time before he finally gathers enough energy to turn his head towards Sam, open his eyes, and admit, "You may be right about my need to recharge."

"I may – for Christ’s sake, Castiel!" Sam’s so upset he doesn’t notice the blasphemy until the angel half flinches. He blows out hair through his nose, loudly, angrily, and tries to count backwards from twenty in Latin, to calm himself, before speaking again. "Sorry. I just – I’m worried about you. If Dean could see you right now he would lecture you to within an inch of your life, shove a glass of water and some vitamin pills on you, and force you into the nearest bed and glare at you until you slept. When you woke, he would stuff you with food, then force you back into the bed to rest some more."

"I am aware that he would be unhappy with me. Unfortunately, there is little else I could have done. I was following through on your advice to seek sustenance, and had the misfortune to pick a restaurant that was in the process of being taken over by demons. It was . . . unpleasant. The town was in the process of being taken over. I was forced to deal with it as best I could," Castiel explains, voice still sounding far too ragged for Sam’s peace of mind.

Sam stares at him for a moment, shocked and afraid (even though he knows that things worked out, somehow or another) and furious, before exploding. "Wait, _what_? You took on a whole freakin’ town of demons by yourself? Are you out of your _mind_? Why the _fuck_ didn’t you call on us? You _promised_ – !"

Quietly, tiredly, Castiel interrupts, explaining, "There were wards that kept me from leaving the town in any manner but foot or by vehicle. With such limited options – and at such a distance from you – I had little choice but to stand and fight."

Sam’s voice hits the kind of shrill pitch is usually only does when Dean’s involved and has done something particularly stupid that’s scared the ever-living crap out of him. "You’re not hurt, are you?"

Castiel’s eyes slip shut again. "No, Sam. Just – tired. More tired. Is tireder a word?"

There’s an almost plaintive quality to the question, and it makes Sam’s face soften, anxious fists relaxing and the knot in the pit of his stomach uncoiling itself. "No, Cas. But I know what you mean. Look, you really should be sleeping. You don’t need to be here. I’m glad to know you’re alright and all, but you really aren’t looking so good. Go and rest, okay?"

"I needed to make sure that you and Dean are still alright – "

"And you’ve done that. You don’t need to worry. We’re fine. We’re on our way to Nebraska, to look into a possible case, in a town called Alliance. There’s just the one body and the details are still a little vague. It might not even _be_ a case. And I’m pretty sure it’s not going to be anything demonic, even if it is our kind of case. Maybe a were, at the worst. We’ll ask for help, if we need it. You can rest, in the meantime, okay?" Sam insists.

"Alliance, Nebraska. I will keep that in mind, in case I need to find you." Castiel nods his head, as if to reinforce the promise, but his head keeps bowing down, until his chin touches his chest, and his eyes shut again, as though he no longer has the power to resist the pull of gravity.

"Cas, seriously, man! Go and get some rest before you topple over!" Sam instantly insists, worried that if he doesn’t prod the angel into moving that he’ll end up falling asleep wherever he is and not be able to find his way back from Sam’s dream.

"Yes, Sam. I will. I am going. I will come speak to you again in a couple of nights, if that will be agreeable," Cas tiredly replies.

"If you need more than a couple of days to recover, that’ll be alright. You just take care of yourself, okay? _Seriously._ Promise me. Dean’d skin me alive if he knew I let you go without you promising to take better care of yourself," is Sam’s insistent reply.

"I promise I will do my best to take better care of myself. I would not want either of you to worry about me. Or Dean to be upset with you on my account."

"Then go ahead and go get some sleep, alright? Don’t worry about us for awhile. We’ll be fine for at least a couple of days. We won’t even hit Nebraska until probably late tomorrow night and may not even get there until the next morning, if we stop early for the night. Go on back and rest. I’ll see you later. Okay?" Sam half asks and half orders.

Castiel’s mouth curves a fraction, the hint of a smile somehow managing to be brilliant and warming even though it’s also clearly wanly exhausted. "You wish to stay?"

Sam looks out across the waves, smiling faintly, already feeling more relaxed. "If it’s alright with you."

"Of course. Goodnight to you, Sam. I will see you again soon, if God wills."

Sam’s got a quip on the tip of his tongue based on the old saying that God helps those who help themselves, but by the time he looks back over at the angel, Castiel’s already vanished, a familiar rustle and rush of wind heralding his departure. He sighs, at that, wishing Cas could’ve stayed a little bit longer and talked some more, even though he knows it wouldn’t’ve been a good idea and that Cas really does need to rest. Sam misses being able to talk to him, though, and can’t quite keep himself from selfishly hoping that, the next time Castiel comes for a visit, he’ll be well-rested enough to stay for more than a few minutes.

Sighing again, he settles back in his chair, turning himself until he’s facing out towards the water. At least he’ll get another restful night, even if he doesn’t get to talk to Cas about much of anything. That’s better than nothing.

Better than the alternative, anyway.

Closing his eyes, he lets the sound of the ocean and the heat of the sun soak into him, and relaxes until nothing but peace fills him, hoping he’ll be able to hold on to the feeling a little while longer, this time.

Unfortunately, the next time Castiel comes to visit (another two nights later), Sam’s a lot more certain that what’s going on in Alliance really is a case and that it might even possibly be serious (even if it’s probably still not all that likely to be demonic in nature), and Castiel _still_ looks like he’s been put through a wringer and is about half a dozen steps or less from collapse. When Sam opens his eyes and looks up, to track the angel’s rustling arrival, Castiel actually wavers a little on his feet, like he’s made a landing on none too steady feet and is in real danger of losing his balance enough to topple over. "Mother of – _Cas_!" Sam leaps to his feet, catching the angel by the shoulders to help hold him steady. "What in God’s name happened to you? Are you hurt? What can I do to help?"

"I am . . . " Castiel pauses for a few moments (partially as though simply looking for the right word to use, but apparently also in part because he is so tired that he’s having difficulty focusing enough to continue speak) before finally adding, "recovering, Sam. I am no longer hurt.

Simply exhausted. My batteries, as you call them, were apparently not sufficiently recharged for the events of the day. I am whole. Simply . . . very tired. I am . . . unused to it requiring so much energy, to heal this body."

"To _heal_ – ? Cas! You promised you’d call us, if you needed help!" Sam feels a little bit like a broken record, but the angel’s obvious inability to take care of himself and to actually rest is so frustrating that he can’t help but repeat himself. "You _promised_ – !"

"The situation was unexpected. I fear there was no time to call for help. I would have done so, otherwise. Aid would have been most appreciated." Castiel sighs, leaning unabashedly into the hands bracing him up.

"Oh, for – come and sit down! I swear, you’re even worse than Dean!" Sam frets.

Castiel’s mouth twitches, though whether in amusement or dismay over the comparison, Sam can’t quite tell. In any case, he allows himself to be quickly guided over to and manhandled down on to one of the two lounging chairs, and doesn’t protest, even when Sam stands remains standing over him, hands clenched tightly, glaring for all he’s worth. Softly, he begins to say, "I am sorry to upset you – "

"It’s not just that I’m _upset_!" Sam immediately snaps, temper flaring high. "I’m _worried_ about you! What the hell were you thinking, coming here like this? Why didn’t you just wait another night?　What if you’ve hurt yourself worse, getting here? Dean’ll kill me if – "

"I needed to ask how your case is going. I have heard . . . rumors of strange happenings, in Nebraska. I am concerned that you may be dealing with something far more dangerous than you indicated to me, earlier."

"It’s just a _case_! An increasingly weird case, yeah, but not the weirdest one we’ve ever seen, and certainly not dangerous enough for you to risk hurting yourself coming here to ask me about it! Christsakes, you could’ve just _called_!" Sam insists, too pissed to even care when Castiel flinches slightly at the blasphemy.

Quietly, Castiel simply asks, "Do you think Dean would not realize that I had called and wonder why I was contacting you?"

"I don’t _care_ if he would’ve wondered or not! I could’ve always said you were helping me with some research! He _hates_ research! He wouldn’t push if – "

"Sam. You do not need to lie to your brother for my sake. In fact, I would prefer that you not do so. If he ever asks, you must tell him, truthfully, about our visits."

"The Hell I must! Do you have any idea how freaked out he’d be if – ?"

"It would hurt him more to discover at a later date that you had lied to him and I had permitted you to do so," Castiel immediately insists, looking up at Sam with bright and almost angry eyes. "I wish to be as honest with Dean as I can, Sam. My brethren have lied to us – to all of us – enough. I want no untruths of my own making or countenance between us. I must insist that you _not_ lie to him, on my account, for any reason. It would hurt me, as well as Dean, if you were to do so, Sam. Please. Do not do so."

There’s a pleading quality to the angel’s voice that makes Sam want to squirm with guilt, but he’s so frustrated with Castiel that what he does, instead, is to cross his arms defensively across his chest and continue to scowl darkly down at the angel. "It would’ve been easier if you’d’ve just called. I could’ve thought of something to explain it that wouldn’t upset either one of you. And you could’ve stayed where you are and rested some more. Which you _need_ to do, once you leave here, no matter what the fuck else happens. You look like you’re inches away from planting your face in the sand! If you don’t promise to go and rest and _mean it_ , this time, I swear to God, Cas, I’ll tell Dean what you’re doing and leave it up to him to make sure you start taking better care of yourself!"

Castiel’s eyes slip shut and he takes a deep breath, as if trying to center himself, before finally, slowly, replying, "I promise I will rest. Unless there is a disaster, I will do so, Sam."

"I don’t freakin’ well care if there _is_ a disaster!" Sam immediately harshly counters. "Unless you’re in imminent danger of getting seriously mauled or hauled back to Heaven or dragged off to Hell, you go to bed and you _stay there_ until you’re rested again! You hear me?"

"Sam. I will do what I can. I assure you that I will. But I will not remain in my bed if Dean or you are in danger and I could help," Castiel merely calmly replies. "I _cannot_ promise you that. It will do you no good to ask it of me. You will only be disappointed by my answer."

"I didn’t mean – it’s not that I don’t – I just – "

"You are worried. And your concern touches me deeply. But I am doing as well as I currently know how to do. And it will do no good to ask impossible concessions of me, in an attempt to assuage your frustration and fear. I am as careful as I can be, Sam. Always. I promise you that. I have no desire to be unable to return to your brother’s side and stand with him, when the time comes," Castiel promises. "I would be careful of myself if only for that reason. And it is not the only one I have, to cause me to take care. I know that it would hurt you, if I were harmed. And I do not wish to inflict that on you, little brother. You have suffered much and I am at least partially to blame for some of it. I do not wish to add to that burden. So I am careful, for your sake. As well as for Dean’s."

There’s really not much of anything Sam can say, to that. Even the urge to accuse the angel of cheating, for turning things about so neatly and irrefutably, feels far too mean and petty to indulge, when Castiel is so obviously earnest about not wanting to hurt either him or Dean and planning to be able to return to Dean’s side, some day, and take a stand with him (quite possibly for good and all). So, shoulders slumping and arms unfolding to fall loosely back down at his sides, Sam sighs, sits down on the other chair, and reiterates, "I just want you to take better care of yourself. I _need_ for you to take care of yourself and be careful and be able to come back to my brother, some day. I can’t do this without Dean and I don’t think he can do it without you. We need you, Cas. _Please_. Just – _try_ , okay? Please?"

Castiel’s eyes are kind (if terribly deeply shadowed, obviously incredibly tired) as he tilts his head down an increment, the motion somehow reassuring, even though he plainly means it more in acknowledgment of the request than in agreement with it. Quietly, he allows, "Yes, Sam. I try. And I will continue to do so." Then, with startling amount of intensity, given his state of blatant exhaustion, he adds, "But before I go and rest, I must insist that you tell me of this case you and Dean are pursuing. I have heard things that give me cause for concern. And before you protest, I would have you consider the fact that I will most likely not be able to rest properly – if at all – if I am caught up in unhappy imaginings of how badly this case might be going."

Sam exhales explosively, unhappily, but doesn’t try to protest, unable to even try to argue over whether or not Castiel has a point. "It’s just – it’s weird. A couple of really bizarre deaths and some really weird . . . accidents, I guess you’d call them, and sicknesses or afflictions of a sort that seem based on some strange urban legends and truly twisted fairytales. We think what’s been going on is linked to this kid, Jesse Turner – his parents have evidently told him all kinds of weird stories, to try to keep him in line. Not monsters under the bed or in the closet kinds of things, per se, but things like mixing pop rocks and soda will give you ulcers and itching powder can make you scratch your brains out and the Tooth Fairy’s a really big guy who doesn’t take all

that kindly to having folks try to trick him into giving up money for false teeth or teeth that don’t belong to them and, well, things like that," Sam explains, shrugging.

"You do not sound convinced," Castiel notes, frowning slightly.

Sam shrugs again. "That’s ’cause I’m not. This kind of stuff would take a lot of power. And I mean a _lot_ of power. I’m not sure I can believe that it’s this latchkey kid who’s doing all of it, honestly. I think there’s probably a Trickster or another one of those cursed wishing coins or something similar lurking around that we don’t know about yet and that’s what’s making all the weirdness happen. But since the kid’s adopted, we decided to check him out some more anyway. Turned out, the birth mother’s doesn’t live all that far away from the kid. So, we’re in her town right now, resting up from the drive, planning on paying her a little visit bright and early, to see if there’s anything hinky we should know about the kid’s conception or birth."

"If I ask, will you promise to inform me if there is anything . . . hinky about the child?"

Sam’s mouth quirks at the angel’s expression, as he says the word "hinky," but he starts to frown again almost immediately. "I’m not sure it’d be a good idea. You need your rest. And I don’t know that Dean would appreciate it if – "

"If there is something strange about the child, it could very well be that you will require my help and Dean will wish to ask for my aid. I am merely asking that you do so, in this case."

Unconvinced, Sam keeps on frowning. "But – "

"It . . . involves that which we spoke on earlier," Castiel instantly adds. "The rumors that I will not speak of in detail, to you or to Dean, without some proof that they might be true."

Castiel’s face is set in the same kind of relentlessly (immovably) stubborn lines that Dean’s face will take on, whenever he’s made up his mind about something and won’t be moved or shaken from his chosen path for anything in the world, and Sam finds himself groaning in surrender, knowing that nothing he might say could possibly sway the angel. "Hell. Oh, alright, already! But you gotta promise you’re going straight to sleep, when you leave here, or no deal!"

"The body I was given when resurrected is already in a bed. I will sleep more, when I leave here, unless circumstances render it impossible," Castiel promises.

Sam doesn’t appreciate the qualifier attached to the promise, but he can tell that he’s not going to get a better response, so he sighs, and bows his head in defeat. "Alright. If Dean doesn’t think of it first, I’ll convince him we need to call you, if it turns out there’s anything strange enough about the kid’s past to make it plausible that he might be responsible for what’s going on in Alliance. I still think it’s probably a Trickster or something, but I’ve been proven wrong before. Alright?"

"It will suffice. Thank you, Sam."

Sam flaps a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Go on. Get out of here before I change my mind. And actually _rest_ , this time!"

"I will endeavor to do so. If you can, please impress upon Dean the need to be careful."

The request is made so earnestly that Sam can’t help but smile at the angel. "Don’t worry. I’ll do my best to keep him safe. You take care of yourself, too, alright?"

Castiel gives him one of those small but brilliant slivers of a smile, inclining his head. "I promise I will try. Do you wish to stay here, again?"

Sam half shrugs as he finally sits down on the other lounging chair. "Yeah. If it’s alright with you. It’s peaceful here."

"As you wish, then. Good night, little brother."

"’Night, Cas." Before he can impresses upon the angel the need to rest again, Castiel vanishes (even though Sam’s sure he didn’t look away or blink, the angel’s form somehow just blinking out of existence, despite the fact that he’s fairly sure he never stopped looking at him) in a familiar rustle and rush of wind.

Alone again, Sam heaves a long-suffering sigh. He wonders, briefly, if Dean were ever so frustrated with him, when he was young and still didn’t really know what their dad did and Sam would sometimes act out (refuse to go to bed on time, refuse to eat his vegetables or take his vitamins, things like that, things that were meant to help keep him healthy and safe), just because. He feels bad for the thought almost immediately, because Castiel isn’t a recalcitrant child and he isn’t trying to be rebellious or difficult _just because_ (because he wants the attention or because he’s frustrated with the facts of his existence). But the angel’s apparent disregard for his own well-being is just so darn _frustrating_ that Sam can’t help but feel some kindred with (and sympathy for) the parents and care-takers of stubborn children everything.

Sighing again, Sam settles back on the chair and determinedly closes his eyes. He’s got enough to worry about already, without inviting more trouble onto his plate by comparing Castiel to an uncooperative child and possibly offending him. This case really _is_ a weird one (and he hasn’t forgiven Dean yet, for using that blasted joy buzzer on him, no matter how convinced he may’ve been that the damn thing had gone back to being merely another silly toy), and the sheer implausibility of nearly everything about it has been giving him a headache almost ever since that coroner told them that the babysitter had essentially scratched her own brains out.

He can’t quite bring himself to seriously consider the possibility that the kid might anything to do with all of the craziness (aside from maybe being accidentally tied in to whatever it is that’s powering all of these ridiculous and already far too often deadly high-jinks) – he’s fairly certain it’s a Trickster or something entirely too like a Trickster for his own peace of mind, no matter what the angel may seem to fear or Dean so obviously suspects – and is fairly certain that the drive up to Elk Creek, in search of Julia Wright, is probably going to end up being a wild goose chase, but that’s no reason to fret or worry the night away, especially not when he has such beautiful surroundings to lull him into a truly relaxing and refreshing sleep.

Besides, if the birth mom thing’s a bust, there’s no telling where they could end up or what they might have to do, to chase down whatever’s really responsible for all the mayhem in Alliance. He might as well get all the rest he can, while the getting’s still good. Take his own advice, and all, so that Castiel can’t call him on it, later (in case he caught wind of that thought, comparing him to a sulky child, and is inclined to try to raise a fuss about it). So, sighing again, he settles back a bit more, closing his eyes and deliberately relaxing against the cushions of the lounging chair, letting the peace of the rhythmic ocean waves and the warm sun seep into him and suffuse him with a sense of calm and well-being, determined to savor the tranquility for as long as he can.

And of course, as it turns out, he’s both entirely wrong and completely right. The boy really _is_ the cause of all the havoc in Alliance (and could potentially cause a helluva lot more trouble and chaos and destruction, if he really wanted to, seeing as how he’s apparently a hellspawn or the son of a demon-possessed virgin mother. And even though Sam has absolutely no freakin’ clue how in the Hell that could possibly work out or why, if it’s possible, there aren’t little hybrid Cambions or Katakos or whatever the heck else they’re apparently called, by cultures that don’t flat out name them hellspawn or Antichrists, running amok all over the world, though he certainly is glad for the latter, considering how much trouble this specific little Antichrist has caused and how frightfully close to turning dark side the boy came, before he backed off and decided to run, instead), and Sam really does need all of the calm and peace and rest he can get, because this case? Is one that gonna leave a mark. And it’s one that he’s going to lose sleep over and agonize over for a long, _long_ time to come.

He’s lying in his bed in the motel that he and Dean fled to, a few towns over from Alliance (more just to be able to put the town and the case behind them, if only in the most literal sense, than out of any pressing need to leave Alliance or to get a head start on making it to wherever their next case might end up being), pretending to be asleep so that Dean won’t be tempted to get one of his random wild hairs and insist on trying to talk about what happened, given the glaringly obvious parallels between Sam and his choices and Jesse Turner and his possible choices (and the still all too real danger that he might not be strong enough to make the right ones and end up joining Lucifer’s side, after all). His body aches, from being pinned by the demon-ridden Julia to that wall and lashed with the demon’s powers, in an attempt to make him keep his silence, but his heart and mind and soul hurt far more than his flesh.

He truly needs to believe that someone – _anyone_ , not just Jesse Turner (though it would certainly be nice if the kid could find the strength to come around and join the fight on humanity’s side) – can have the fortitude and strength of character to make the right choices. He even wishes (a little wistfully) that Jesse might even find it within him to stop running and choose to stand with them and fight, before it’s too late for his powers to do anything to help turn the tide of balance of the war against Lucifer and his minions. But mostly he just aches from the memory of Castiel so bluntly stating that he didn’t dare take the risk of hoping that the boy would make the right choice, when he possessed the power to destroy the whole of the Hosts of Heaven with no more than a single word (not when even Sam couldn’t manage to make the right decision, in the end, when faced with a similar choice) and hopes that, some day soon, he might be able to forget the brain-bending bizarreness of holding a freakin’ _angel of the Lord_ reduced by a frightened (and perhaps also somewhat vindictive) Antichrist to the size and appearance and (God!) _feel_ of a plastic action figure (complete with windswept hair and a strange silvery knife-like weapon of angel-killing strength and rustling trench coat over a shadowy half impression of dark wings, visible only out of the corner of the eye).

He can hear Dean, still moving around in the room (sorting out laundry that needs to be washed in the morning, from the sounds of things), and so keeps his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to invite notice or words or (worse) sympathy or (perhaps worst of all) possible agreement on the point Castiel raised, about Sam being incapable of making the right choice, even after having lived the better part of his life as a hunter whose mission in life was to protect people and destroy evil things. He’s so busy concentrating on holding himself still and silent that, when the soft sounds of Dean working his way through their duffle bags gains a counterpoint rustling from a heavenly visitor, he doesn’t even notice at first, and nearly gives himself way by jerking with surprise when the angel’s gravelly voice breaks the semi-silence.

"Dean. I am sorry for the way things fell out. If I had know, I would have done everything in my power to keep you from taking this case."

Dean’s voice is pitched low, as though to keep from disturbing Sam, but that doesn’t do much to disguise either his brother’s anger or the bitterness of his response. "Why? Don’t trust either one of us to do the right thing? Make the right choice, for the supposed greater good?"

"They are my _brethren_ , Dean. Just because some of them have turned away from God, that does not mean I should also turn away from the whole of Heaven’s Hosts. That boy has the power to destroy us all, as though we were puppets to be brushed aside."

"More like dolls, from where I was standing," Dean snarks.

Urgently, earnestly, Castiel repeats, "Dean, they are my _brethren_ – "

"And what have any of them done, to help you? To help us? To really step up and take a stand against Lucifer and the other demons? To do _anything_ to help humanity?"

"Dean, they cannot know that – "

"That’s no fucking excuse! If they ever knew you _at all_ , they’d know something was wrong and they’d’ve already taken steps to find out what and to _do_ something about it!" Dean instantly snaps back. "If they have to be led by the fucking hand and shown the difference between right and wrong and justice and injustice, then your _brethren_ are going to be shit out of luck, pal, because we don’t have time for that kind of crap! If it comes down to helping them or to being _human_ , I’ll choose being human every time!"

"Dean – "

"Look, I get they’re basically your brothers and sisters, honestly, I do, but _they turned on you_ , Cas. They let that dick Zachariah torture you for however the fuck long, just for being a good enough angel to truly love your Father’s creations enough to actually care about what happened to some humans, and then they let those archangels kill you, after you found out what your superiors were doing and chose to try to help save mankind from the damn Apocalypse instead of helping your dickwad superiors connive to let Lucifer out of his prison and start the damned End of Days, and then, when you were resurrected, they barred you from Heaven, for no other reason than that you’d chosen, again and again, to do the right thing! As far as I’m concerned, the whole hypocritical lot of them can either fuck off and leave us alone or else go directly to Hell! Fuck the whole goddamned lot of them, if they’re too fucking stupid to be able to figure out that there’s something wrong with the orders they’re getting and that you don’t deserve all of this shit!" Dean snarls, so pissed off that he’s not nearly as careful to keep his voice down, to avoid disturbing Sam, by the time he reaches the end of his diatribe.

Castiel immediately starts to protest. "Most of my brethren have little idea of what has transpired, here on Earth. The garrison is the only unit stationed on Earth – the only unit that has been stationed on Earth for over a thousand years. It is unreasonable to expect – "

"If I can’t expect your brethren to know how to be loyal, then what the Hell kind of use can you possibly imagine they’d be to me?" is Dean’s explosive rebuttal.

"They _are_ loyal! Just because they are misguided and believe that what they are doing is God’s will – "

"If they’re too damn dumb to know that God wouldn’t want this, then why would you think I’d want their help, even if they were wiling to give it?"

That

manages to knock the pleading, protesting quality out of Castiel’s voice. Clearly irritated, he snaps, "In case you’ve forgotten, Lucifer roams free and has found a vessel able to at least temporarily contain him! We need all the help we can get, Dean! We cannot afford to turn away, simply because you are angry with my brethren over of some slight you imagine they’ve deliberately committed against me!"

"Well, if it’s not deliberate, then what the fuck do you call it?"

Firmly, Castiel replies, "A regrettable result of ignorance. One for which I can forgive them, seeing as how you and Sam have both forgiven me for my own crimes of ignorance, as well as for the things I did after Zachariah attempted to prove to me the error of my ways, in choosing to take your family’s part and to protest against the apparent lack of care being shown for humanity’s future!"

"They _tortured_ you, for fuck’s sake! And you decided to help anyway, just because I asked and wouldn’t take no for an answer!"

Flatly, Castiel replies, "But not before I myself released your brother from the warded panic room in Bobby Singer’s house. Nor did I act in time for you to get to your brother before he could begin his attack on Lilith. If I had possessed the courage and the righteousness to answer your call earlier – "

"Oh, for God’s sake, Cas! Don’t you go pulling this shit, too! I’ve already had to deal with more than enough of Sam’s self-recriminations to last me a fucking lifetime! Don’t you start doing this _if I’d only been stronger_ shit, too! You _died_ , to give me a chance to get to Sam and stop him! There’s nothing more _anyone_ could’ve asked of you! Hell, I didn’t even have the right to accept your offer, under the circumstances! If I’d known – "

Voice soft but implacable, Castiel interrupts, declaring, "You still would have required help. And, for your brother’s sake, you still would have asked. And I would have given it, irregardless of the consequences, for it would’ve only been right."

"Don’t you _say_ that! Don’t you _dare_! You’re worth more than – "

"Dean, I – "

"So help me God, if you get yourself killed again, doing something you think is _right_ , I’ll find a way to resurrect you _myself_ , just so I can kick your ass!"

There’s a pause, then, and Sam carefully slits an eye open (glad he’s already facing in the direction of the voices and won’t have to try to risk turning over, to get a look, no matter how distracted by Castiel and his arguments Dean might currently be), peering across the darkened room to find his brother on his feet, hands clenched, leaning in so close to the angel that he’s right up in his face, all bristling attitude and unabashed ferocity. Castiel looks like Sam imagines he might if he were human and Dean had just turned about completely at random and sucker-punched him. The breath he takes is both surprisingly loud, in the silence surrounding Dean’s threatening promise, and far shakier than Sam can ever remember hearing from Cas, and his voice isn’t just low but half strangled with an emotion that it takes Sam several moments to identify as sheer awe.

"Shekhinah."

Dean blinks, face blank with surprise and incomprehension. "Excuse me?"

"The Holy Spirit. It is your proximity to this that gives you such a vast capacity to care for others. It . . . never ceases to amaze me, when that capacity turns in my favor."

Dean stares, clearly taken aback, silent for several long moments, before finally choking out, " _Dude!_ What – how could you even – ? Oh, for God’s sake, Cas! You raised me from Hell! You’re the only one who stood by me, the only one who cared enough to give Sam even _half_ a chance, the only one who’s acted anything _at all_ like what an angel of the Lord _should_ behave! If I didn’t care about you, I’d be the first to admit I didn’t even deserve to _be_ here, much less to have your help! Dammit, you’re my _friend_!"

Dean’s clutching Castiel’s left shoulder by the end of that passionate recital, and the angel looks like someone who’s just been handing something desperately wished for, something never thought to be received, on a silver platter, without having ever actually been called upon to ask for it. He reaches up and ghosts his fingertips along the hand grasping him, as though to reassure himself of its reality, and his light touch is clearly reverent. Voice quiet but firm with conviction, Castiel declares, "I will be as careful as I am able. But _you_ are also _my_ friend. I have chosen your cause, Dean. If I must, I will do what is necessary to ensure that you remain safe. You are the only one who can stop this. I do not believe that Michael is the only way – I believe that, if we can find God, another path will open to us – but I will still do what I must, to keep you safe. You cannot gainsay me that. I made my choice."

"Cas, you shouldn’t – you – I’m not – I’m – Ah, Hell! Alright. _Alright._ I get it, okay? They’re your family. If there’s something we can do to help them understand what’s going on, something we can do to make sure Lucifer’s demons don’t kick their asses . . . I’ll do what I can, okay? Just don’t – _don’t_ , alright? And stop looking at me like that, for Christ’s sake! I’m not the freakin’ Holy Grail!"

"No. You are much more than any mere chalice."

Voice a threatening low rumble, Dean hisses, "Cas. We talked about this, remember?"

"I recall. But I have not changed my mind. You are the one who still has doubts."

"They’re not _doubts_!" Dean instantly snaps, though there is a breathlessness in his voice that sounds a lot more like panic than anger, and his expression, to Sam, looks like fear.

"You doubt yourself."

"I know who I am. I know _what_ I am, Cas," is Dean’s snarled reply.

"No. You do not. But you _will_ , Dean. I promise you that I will help to you show the truth, if it is within my power. I have faith that, one day, you will stop fighting so hard to think only the worst of yourself, and you will know the truth, and you will believe," is Castiel’s calmly implacably convinced response, the look on his face essentially the same expression of radiantly exultant joy that Sam has observed so often wreathes the faces of saints in artwork.

Dean tries one more time to protest, complaining, "Cas, you shouldn’t – "

"Hush. We need not speak of this now, if it is still so discomforting to you. But you know that you will not change my mind. You need not exhaust yourself in the trying. You need your rest. You should be asleep by now," Castiel replies, gently scolding.

Hesitantly, as though not sure he wants to admit to it or not, Dean explains, "I – I thought you might drop by, once Sam was asleep."

Castiel inclines his head graciously. "And I have done so."

"Yeah, well, I was expecting – or hoping, at least – for a bit less arguing and some more apologizing. You were wrong about the kid, after all," Dean replies, unabashedly grousing.

Voice flat, Castiel immediately insists, "I was not wrong. The boy is dangerous. He could kill the whole of the Hosts of Heaven. He could destroy the Earth, if he wished. If he loses his temper again, he might still do so, even without pledging himself to Lucifer."

"He let us _go_ , Cas!" Dean immediately protests. "He cast that demon out and he – "

"He _ran_ ," Castiel quickly counters. "And he did not go without first killing two relative innocents and hurting several others. That he undid what he could of the damage he had wrought does not negate his ability to inflict such damage again, were he to lose control or to actively wish harm upon others."

"He’s still just a _kid_! You can’t – "

"If it were to come down to him or to your brother, you cannot tell me you would stay your hand, simply because his form is that of a child. So it is with me. I could not stand by and do nothing while he destroyed the Hosts of Heaven, not if I could stop him. I do not wish him harm. If he wishes to run and to remain hidden and to do harm to none, then I will not seek him out. So long as he refrains from taking a side in this battle, I will not seek him out. But the moment I know that he has actively turned against us or turned against my brethren without distinguishing between those seeking to do God’s will and those seeking to do only their own will, irregardless of the damage they might cause, I _will_ seek his death. And I will not be swayed from my path by his body’s youth. I cannot permit myself such a weakness when so much is at stake. I’m sorry, Dean. I know this displeases you."

"I – I – Cas, he’s like _Sam_. He – "

"But he is _not_ Sam," Castiel immediately calmly interrupts. "If Jesse Turner chooses Lucifer, we cannot hope to save him, knowing him as little as we do. He ran, rather than choose to fight for humanity. Unless he should first choose to come to us and remain long enough for there to be a logical reason for us to hope our words might mean something to him, we cannot pin our hopes on the possibility of saving him, should he fall or choose to turn."

Dean starting shaking his head at once, though to Sam it seems less a gesture of denial than an expression of sick desperation. "I – I – "

"I will do it, if it should become necessary. You need not trouble yourself."

"The _Hell_ I needn’t! I can’t ask you to do that! I can’t expect you to be willing to do something I can’t! If we have to – "

"I will _still_ do it, for I am the one with the weapon that could slay him."

"That isn’t _fair_ – "

Castiel shrugs, silently pointing out that the world quite often isn’t fair. But what he says is, "You carry burdens enough already. Allow me to shoulder this one for you. _Please._ "

"I – "

"It is a sign of strength, that you permit others to help you, not a sign of weakness. It is a sign of trust and of faith. _Please_ , Dean. Please, believe in me enough to allow me this."

The angel’s face is openly pleading, and Dean has to swallow before he can reply, voice at first weak and thready with lingering uncertainty, even as he agrees. "Alright. Yes. Okay. _Yes._ But – Cas, you have to be careful. You _have_ to."

"I swear to you that I will take all of the care that I can. You have my word. Will you give your own, in return?"

Clever, sneaky little bastard,

Sam can’t help but think, even as Dean’s body stiffens in aggravated protest before slumping mutely in defeat. After several moments of silence, he nods. "I’ll be as careful as I can."

"Good. Thank you, Dean. I should go now. You need your rest."

Scowling, Dean protests, "I’m not a kid, Cas! I can take care of myself!"

"Then you should do so, by getting some sleep. I will even leave you to it."

Sam can tell that Dean’s not entirely sure how the conversation went from Castiel’s disloyal brethren to the kid to this and is frustrated with the direction the conversation’s taken and badly wants to argue the point, but Castiel’s essentially backed him into a corner, and Dean knows it, so he just scowls a little bit more deeply, and irritably, acerbically, bites out, "Then I guess I’ll do laundry in the morning, since you’re so keen on playing mom and tucking me in."

Castiel blinks, and Sam has to shut his eyes and bite down hard on the inside of his lip to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter, partially because of the flabbergasted, pole-axed expression on the angel’s face and partially because he’s pretty darn sure that Castiel would like to eventually do a helluva lot more than just tuck Dean into bed (and God, _God_ , bad thought, worse mental images, _gah_ , _hideously_ bad mental images! Where’s mental bleach and steel wool when you need them, for pity’s sake?!). There’s a slight rustle, and when Sam slits an eye open again, Dean’s laying in bed – actually tucked in! – with a look of mingled shock and involuntary amusement on his face, and Castiel is standing over him, on the other side of the bed, with his face schooled to a look of far too innocent blankness.

"I am not sure I understand the lure of being tucked in."

Dean’s voice cracks halfway through the first word, but he soldiers on, apparently for once deciding _what the hell_ and going with amusement rather than aggravation at the angel’s casual bending of time and space and violation of personal space. "We’ll – ah, we’ll work on that some later. It’s kinda a parent thing. Not something you’re likely to hafta worry about any time soon."

The angel practically drips contentment as he inclines his head, and the crooked little grin he gives Dean dazzles Sam nearly half blind even from a distance of three meters. "As you say, Dean. I wish you pleasant dreams."

"Yeah, yeah. Pushy angel. Pushy, argumentative angel. Pushy, argumentative, martyr complex possessing angel," Dean grumbles, schooling his own face into a (small) frown, even though his tone is clearly more affectionate than upset. "You should rest too, you know. Take care of that body. Recharge your batteries. Reserve your energy for things that really matter."

Castiel almost laughs, and the small noise he makes is clearly one of amusement. "I am aware of that, Dean. I will do my best to do all of those things. Good night."

"’Night, Cas. Sleep well, if you sleep."

Castiel smiles a little more, and, while Sam’s blinking, presses the back of his right hand momentarily to the nearest of Dean’s cheeks, in a brief but unabashedly affectionate caress. "I will endeavor to do so. I hope that you sleep deeply, and without dreams. I hope that you both sleep deeply and without dreams. If God wills, I will see you both again soon, under far better circumstances than these."

"There’s something to wish for. I’ll second that," Dean smiles slightly, only a little bit grudgingly, surprisingly enough not freaking out or complaining about the fleeting touch. "Be safe, Cas."

"And you."

Between one heartbeat and the next, one blink and the next, Castiel vanishes, his disappearance marked only the rustle of unseen wings and a rush of wind. Dean sighs, settles down a bit further against his pillow, and, even more surprisingly, shuts his eyes and seems to fall instantly asleep. Sam lays there, staring, for several minutes, while his brother’s breathing deepens and evens out and clearly becomes that of a man asleep, before he believes it. With a mental shrug, though, he finally decides to do the same. Maybe Castiel’s gone to take a nap, or maybe he’s waiting for Sam to fall asleep, so they can have a few words of their own about everything that went down. Either way, he feels oddly comforted (raw edges of hurt by Castiel’s blunt references to his own ability to make the right choice at least slightly soothed) by the exchange he’s overheard (especially regarding Castiel’s concern over the more innocent members of his brethren).

Sighing, he rolls over and shuts his eyes.

With any luck, that parting wish about being well and sleeping deeply and without dreams will hold true, even without that little trick of the angel’s that always seems to send him instantly into dreamless sleep.

Hopefully, if all goes well, they’ll even get to see the angel under better circumstances than these, next time around.

Just now, Sam’ll settle for a good night’s sleep. But no one ever got hurt from wanting something good to happen, so he’ll hope for the best, regarding the future, just in case it’ll help.

After all, who knows? If Jesse could reshape reality just by thinking, maybe if he and Dean and Castiel all wish for the same thing hard enough, they can encourage reality into cooperating, just the once.

Weirder things have surely happened . . .

*********

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author’s Notes: 4).** _(Continued, as promised!)_ Given that plus the fact that there just might be more going on underneath the surface of Dean and Castiel’s . . . relationship (for lack of a better word) than is immediately obvious and that Kripke et al might deliberately be using the connection between Dean and Castiel – the choice Castiel made, in Dean’s favor, and the reasons why, and the possibility that Dean might one day choose Castiel (and, by extension, his God) back, willingly, for reasons of his own – to enrich the show’s already hugely complex background and mythology, I’m finding myself having to seriously contemplate the possibility that Dean/Castiel (of some form or another) could end up being the penultimate ship of the show . . . and that this probability would likely end up having a direct and profound impact on the ultimate outcome of the show, especially regarding the possibility that another way might be found to defeat Lucifer and avert the destruction of the Earth, so that Dean won’t be forced to give in to the faction of angels that, so far, has largely been represented by such amoral individuals as Zachariah and Raphael. 
> 
> Because of this, the Dean/Castiel ship – or at least some version of it – is rapidly becoming a lot more important to me. I honestly don’t know yet if I’m seeing things that are really there or not or what the hell I’m really doing, floundering about in this fandom, grasping at possible ways to smooth a path between Castiel and Dean. (I feel kind of like I’m stumbling around in the dark with an armful of nitroglycerin, which is more than a little disturbing.) 
> 
> The whole thing still kind of freaks me out – there are consent issues here that are just . . . freakin’ insane. _Angel of the Lord_ , y’all. Inherent lack of free will plus the whole created to worship and glorify and adore thing. And Dean Winchester, poster boy for, well, using free will as a convenient excuse to stomp all over monsters, demons, corporate angel asshats, and assorted other company – and I’m seriously, _seriously_ confounded by the fact that, while their connection so far largely seems to be more mental/spiritual or even emotional than physical (much less sexual), that handprint of Castiel’s is still blazoned on Dean’s arm like a mark of ownership, where he gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, not to mention worried as hell over the fact that, while Castiel appears to be becoming more human (especially this season), Dean’s capacity for self-blame and self-loathing are still such that any alteration to the angel’s apparent nature is (upon reflection) entirely too likely to make Dean panic over the possibility that he’s corrupted/lessened/damaged Castiel. 
> 
> So, in short (not to repeat myself or anything, _but_ ), I really have no clue what I’m doing here or where this story came from or why I seem to think it’s a good idea to pursue this crazy idea of mine (courtesy of my muse) in what is apparently a nascent between-the-scenes series in the making, given that it follows on the heels of the previous stories my insane muse bullied me into writing. I get the feeling that I’m going to end up regretting allowing myself to be bullied and pulling out handfuls of hair whilst trying to figure out what in the hell this thing really is and just what Dean and Castiel truly are to one another. In the meantime, though, since I’ve no intention of trying to puzzle this out any further right now, allow me to point out that, though this specific story (like the one preceding it) is canon-compliant up through the sixth episode of season five (at least to a point, inasmuch as it follows the events of the show), the between-the-scenes nature of the story means that it can, technically, also be read as AU. And, in any case, I have a strong suspicion that this story won’t precisely remain all that canon-compliant once the next episode has come out. So . . . readers might want to take this with a grain of salt. (In fact, freakin’ huge handfuls of salt might not be entirely out of line.) Okay?


End file.
